On a different plane of existence
Where pain is more ubiquitous
Than transient worldly pleasure;
And even in these times tripping through lovely leisure,
I try, in vain, to please her: I think to leave her
By leading her to lead bellies, sad livers, and city lights.
While we kiss & touch & live through vivacious, dead
Prophets we’ve not yet met, and seething
With regret, dead-set on traversing, tiredly
Toward a heaven in a cage with cold days spent
Teetering between rhyme and centuries out of mind
While you dance your fingers down my spine
With each sultry line dropping, strangled
Below the pure porousness of this pallidly, poignant page
As I stand above burning sage,
I simmer to an old throne, a seat to sit
Where fingers restlessly drum, unceasing this life, a lifelong
Queasiness of bitter feelings from some place with in me;
Taking rash rides above torrential wind
& tides along with love laughter, mysterious misanthropy and
Prolonged hate for this train, derailed – the twisted fate of a turn
Taken too late. And still melodies of moments softly sway and
Play between the grasses hissing, mind’s misled, by masses kick started
By the crassness of pent-up passion. The kiss of death
Is just the normal reaction: while eyes close, lights fade,
This sadness slouches across the spirits of the living, unforgivingly
Until your mind is made, the corpses are innocently laid
Out in rows riveting with robbers of graves
Of sundry souls, unsure, uncertain from what to be saved.
The road to nirvana, hence is paved with the skulls of
Fools caught in this disaster of an age
As I sit in chairs broken, empty – left unengaged while
Staring at a sun, specters split, critics & spectators
Calmly spit on a risky bet, a wage warranted in diminutive
Amount on whether or not I’ll go on again, a -dying
Lackluster & trying to swallow the sun to combust the despondent dust
Off this, these, & every single fucking page
Once more to the sad rivers to finally drown.
I’m chattering cold caught on the cautious chuckles wild with weariness of a wound
Where all that is left on a blank page is this fit of viciousness:
Savage wounds from fleeting fountains full of this f***ing youthful deadly rage!
Poet's Corner 